University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Two days later the cousins sat in their front room,
Florence intently reading, Mary watching beside the couch
of pain, bathing her aunt's brow, and chafing the hands.
Aunt Lizzy was suffering from violent nervous headache:
all day she had tossed restlessly about, and now, soothed by
the gentle touches on her brow, had fallen asleep. Her
fingers had tightly clasped Mary's small, thin hands, but
gradually relaxing their hold, sunk beside her. Softly
smoothing back the disordered hair, the young nurse failed
to perceive the entrance of Dr. Bryant, and only looked up
when a beautiful bouquet of flowers was laid upon her lap.
The feverish glow deepened on her cheek as she warmly
thanked him.

“I am glad you like them, Miss Irving.”

“How could I do otherwise?”

“My bunch is equally beautiful,” cried Florence, holding
it up for inspection. “Pray, Doctor, how came you so
thoroughly acquainted with our different tastes? You
have selected admirably.”

“I am gratified at succeeding so happily in my arrangement

of them. But I hope your aunt is not seriously indisposed?”

“No, merely a bad nervous attack, to which she is
subject.”

“Miss Mary, as you are free from apprehension on
her account, can you take a short ride this evening?
I have a gentle horse at the gate, and if you will trust
yourself with me, I think a good canter will benefit you exceedingly:
will you go?”

Mary sought Florence's eye; it brightened with pleasure.

“Certainly, Mary; why do you hesitate? I am very
glad Dr. Bryant suggested it; I will take good care of
aunt, and the ride will doubtless benefit you.”

“You are very kind, Doctor; I will only detain you
while I change my dress.” And she withdrew.

“Don't you think she looks much better to-day?” asked
Florence, anxiously, as her cousin left the room.

“She has certainly more color, but I am afraid it is only
a feverish glow. Let me entreat you, Miss Hamilton,
to watch over her with the greatest care: the slightest exposure
might cause a return of that terrible cough, and in
her feeble state I fear for the consequences.”

“She has grown very, very thin, within the last month;
but then, when warm weather comes again, I doubt not
she will grow rosy and strong once more.” They both
sighed heavily, as though against conviction each had
striven to cheer the other.

Mary re-entered the room equipped for her ride, and now,
for the first time, Florence thought her cousin beautiful
Beneath her straw hat floated back from her fair face a

luxuriant mass of brown curls; a bright blush mantled
the delicate cheek, and the gentle blue eyes seemed unusually
large and brilliant. A smile dimpled round her lip as
she met the fond glance bent upon her. Florence tenderly
clasped her hand a moment, then kissed her warmly, and
bade Dr. Bryant take all care of her. He promised to do
so, and soon they had passed beyond her sight. They rode
slowly, lest Mary should be too much fatigued; and often
the eyes of her companion rested on the frail but lovely being
by his side.

“Which way shall we ride?”

“If you have no preference, suppose we go to San Pedro?”

“You could not have selected more in accordance with
my own wishes.”

A long silence ensued, broken only by the clatter of their
horses' hoofs along the gravel path.

“The prospect of leaving forever these beautiful environs,
which I have so often admired, fills me with inexpressible
regret. My heart clings to San Antonio, though
my residence here has been very brief;” said Dr. Bryant,
sadly.

“Do you go to return no more?” asked Mary, with
averted head.

“Yes, most probably I shall never see this place again;
for I wish to visit Europe so soon as my business affairs are
arranged at home, and on my return, shall devote myself
to my profession.” He fixed his eyes earnestly on her face
as he spoke.

Slowly the head drooped, till the hat concealed her features.

“We shall miss you very much when you are gone.
Florry and I feel deeply grateful for your continued kindness,
and never—no, never shall we forget your care of my
uncle.”

“Take care—take care; you are dropping your reins.”

He gathered them up, and replaced them in her hand.

“Thank you; I had quite forgotten them.”

“Do you not think it would be best for you and Florence
to return to your friends in Louisiana? This is an unpleasant
home for you.”

“It was my uncle's wish that we should remain here,
and I know Florry would not consent to leave, unless some
danger threatened. We have learned to love San Antonio
more dearly than any other place, except our old home;”
replied Mary, earnestly.

“By-the-by, I had almost forgotten to mention that I
have had a letter from an old friend, who inquired very
particularly after you—Dudley Stewart; you knew him, I
think, in New Orleans. His letter is dated six months
ago; but I am happy to receive it at all during these unsettled
times.”

“We heard of his marriage,” said Mary, in a low tone,
as the image of Florence rose before her.

“His marriage! Oh, no! you must be mistaken. He
would most certainly have mentioned it, for we are old and
intimate friends.”

“It was reported that he had married his cousin.”

“Ah! is that all? I am not much surprised that you
should have heard that, for before I left home it was quite
current. His widowed mother was very anxious to make

the match; but Stewart assured me he would never comply
with her wishes, as he had fully resolved never to wed
a woman he did not tenderly love; and though quite pretty,
Ellen is not sufficiently intellectual to attract such a
man.”

“Are you quite sure of this, Dr. Bryant?” said Mary, in
a quick, eager tone.

“Certainly; I had it from his own lips.”

“Oh! I—” She stopped short, and her cheek crimsoned,
as she met the piercing glance of his dark eye bent upon
her face. Her small hands trembled so that the reins
quivered, and she closed her eyes for a moment, while the
glow fled from her cheeks, leaving them pale as marble.

He caught her hand, and steadied her in her saddle.

“Forgive my inattention, Miss Irving, you are not strong
enough to extend your ride. Your face is very pale, and
you look fatigued.”

“Yes, let us go home—home.” Her voice was low and
faltering, and she with difficulty restrained the tears which
sprung to her eyes.

They turned their horses' heads, and neither attempted
to remove the restraint which both experienced. They
entered the town, and then seeing her hand glide quickly
to her side, he gently said:

“I am afraid we are riding too fast for you.”

Her lips writhed for a moment with acute pain; but
with a faint smile, which touched him with its sadness,
she replied:

“I am better now—the pain has almost left me. I am
very sorry to trouble you so much, Dr. Bryant.”

“Trouble!” he murmured, as if communing with his
own heart. “I see you do not know me, nor ever will;
for none have truly read my soul or sympathized.” A
look of bitterness passed over his face, and a sterner expression
rested there than Mary had ever marked before.
She knew not what to reply, for she could not comprehend
the change, and even as she pondered, he pointed to the
western sky, and, much in his usual tone, asked:

“Don't you think the sunsets here exceed any you ever
beheld elsewhere?”

“In brilliancy they certainly do. Yet I love still better
the soft tints which often linger till the stars come out.
I think they blend and harmonize more beautifully with
the deep blue of the zenith than any I have seen before,
and I have watched sunsets from my childhood.”

“You are right; I have noticed in more northern latitudes
a very perceptible difference in the appearance of
the firmament. The moon, for instance, on cold, clear
nights, presents a silvery, glittering disc, but the soft mellow
light of a southern clime is wanting.”

While he spoke, the figure of a woman emerged from a
house near by, and, softly approaching Mary's horse, laid
her finger on her lips, and, pressing a piece of paper into
her hand, returned as silently as she came. Dr. Bryant
turned his head toward Mary as he finished speaking, and,
catching a glimpse of the retreating form, looked inquiringly
at her.

“I believe it was Inez, though the face was entirely
concealed. She did not speak, but gave me this paper,”
and Mary unrolled the note:

With a groan, Mary handed him the paper. In silence
he perused and returned it to her.

“Tell me, was it Inez who warned you before?”

“Yes, she told me we incurred unknown dangers by
remaining here.” He mused for several moments.

“Ah! I can understand it all now. Several nights ago,
returning from the Alamo, I met her on the bridge alone;
she seemed excited, I thought, and impatient at meeting
me, for I questioned her rambling so late.”

“Inez is a warm friend, and what she advises I feel
almost bound to do, for she is not timid, and only real
danger rouses her apprehension.”

“Eight thousand men! and not two hundred to man
the Alamo. Inez is right; this is not a proper place for
you. We will go, as we once decided, to Washington; and
when you are in safety, I will return and lend my efforts
to the feeble garrison.”

They reached the gate, and he gently lifted the frail
form from the saddle; and, drawing her arm through his,
led her to the house. As they entered, he bent his head
and said, in a low tone:

“Tell me candidly, are you able to undergo the fatigue
incident to this journey? I fear you are not.”

“Yes, I shall perhaps grow stronger; at any rate, if
you do not change your mind, let no fears for me influence
you.”

When leaving, he said it was probable that all would
be in readiness for their departure within a couple of days,
as he wished to see them secure, and then return.

“Mrs. Carlton will accompany us when she learns this
terrible news?” said Mary, inquiringly.

“Oh yes; I can not consent for her to remain, and
besides, Mr. Carlton has been anxious for some time regarding
his family.”

Florence, having read the note, fully approved their
promptly removing, and all necessary preparations were
made for immediate departure.

Mary longed inexpressibly to impart to her cousin what
she had learned respecting Mr. Stewart, but shrank instinctively
from reviving hopes which might never be realized—hopes
which Florence had long since crushed and
cast out of her heart as dead. With an earnest prayer
that her cousin might yet be blessed and happy, Mary determined
not to broach the subject, at least for a time.
Dr. Bryant without delay apprised the garrison of the rumor
which had reached him, and a courier was immediately
dispatched to head-quarters for reinforcements sufficient
to defend this important fortress—this key of the
state—from the powerful force now advancing to assault
it. Horses were supplied with alacrity, for he had made
many and warm friends, and two large tents, together with
a baggage-wagon, were readily granted to one who so nobly
contributed to the relief of the sick, wounded, and dying.

At length every arrangement was completed, and the
next morning appointed for their departure. Aunt Lizzy
had objected at first, but speedily became reconciled when
Dr. Bryant painted, in a graphic manner, the horrors which
were about to ensue.

As the shades of evening came gently on, the girls set
out for Mrs. Carlton's, as from her dwelling they commenced
their journey. Aunt Lizzy remained to give some final
direction, and then came a sorrowful parting with their
servants, one of whom took Mary in her arms and bade
God bless her, while the tears rolled over her wrinkled
face. Mary could not repress her own, and she sobbed
convulsively. Dr. Bryant, who had come over for them,
laid his hand on the shoulder of the true-hearted negress,
and said:

“Why, Aunt Fanny, you must not excite Miss Irving;
she is not strong, you know, and has a long ride before her
to-morrow.”

“Oh yes, Doctor, it will do well enough for you to tell
me not to cry, but I can't help it, for I love her as if she
was my own child, and if I thought to see her again I
should not grieve so much; but I saw her mother before
her, and I know how she grew pale and thin, and then
took to the sofa, and never rose up till she was carried to
her grave; and can't I see that blessed child going just
like her? Oh! it's no use talking to me; she ain't long for
this world, and it's hard—yes it's hard for her to die away
from old Fanny!” and she covered her face with her
apron, and sobbed aloud.

Mary wiped her own tears quickly away, and taking the

hand of her old friend, led her back to the kitchen. For
several moments her companions waited anxiously for her;
and soon she advanced slowly to meet them. Frank drew
her arm through his, and sadly they walked away. Passing
the gate, Mary paused and looked out on the river,
where she had so often sat at this hour; and sad though
sweet associations, infinite in number, crowded upon her
mind.

How calm and beautiful all nature seemed, as though
arrayed in its loveliest garb to chain her affection, that, in
after years, the memory of that western home might steal
gently up amidst surrounding gloom, to charm away the
anguish of some bitter hour, and soothe the saddened spirit.
Her heart was inexpressibly touched, and she averted her
head to conceal the expression of keen sorrow which rested
on her face.

“This view of the San Antonio has often struck me as
particularly fine,” said Dr. Bryant, turning to Florence,
whose pale cheek alone attested regret at leaving her home.

“Yes, I know none superior; and our favorite ramble
was along this bank, and down the river side.”

“Its windings are multitudinous, yet how graceful every
curve: and then, the deep blue of its waters adds not a little
to the beauty of the whole. But we have not leisure
to admire it now, for your cousin must not be chilled, and
the wind blows freshly from the north.”

He stepped on as he spoke, but feeling the small hands
clasped over his arm, looked earnestly down into the pale
face at his side. Mary was bending a last, long look on
house and tree and river; as they walked on, the different

objects passed beyond her view, and then a faint moan escaped
her lips. She met the anxious gaze of her friend,
and replied to its silent questioning:

“Forgive what doubtless seems a great weakness. You
and Florry can not sympathize with me now. You will
both return ere long, but my eyes have rested for the last
time on each loved object. I have dreaded this parting
from the home that has grown so dear to me—but the
pang is over.”

Her deep blue eyes rested on his face, and touchingly
sad was the expression, as she swept back the clustering
hair from her brow. The lips quivered, as of late they
often did when she was excited. Florence did not hear
her words, for she had crossed the street; but Frank's heart
throbbed violently as he listened to her low, sad tone.
Laying his hand on hers, that were tightly clasped, he
pressed them gently, and said, in a slightly faltering voice:

“For Florence's sake—for mine—for your own, do not
give way to such gloomy forebodings! Your depressed
spirits will act injuriously on your health. Let me beg you
to place no confidence in Aunt Fanny's words at parting;
she was herself scarce conscious of their import.”

“I have no gloomy forebodings, no apprehension of the
future, and generally no depressed spirits; but I know full
well that my life is gradually wasting away, slowly, gently,
and almost without pain. I am sinking to an early tomb.
Yet I would not have it otherwise if I could. Death has
long lost all terrors for me; I have no fear—all is peace
and quiet. I am paining you. Forgive me, Dr. Bryant;
but knowing that you and Florry were anxious about me,

I thought it best to tell you that I am fully aware of my
danger, if so I can term what I would not avert.”

A shudder crept over the strong man as he looked down
at the calm, colorless face of her who spoke so quietly of
death, and of quitting forever the scenes she loved so truly.

“I can not—will not believe you are so ill. You will
grow stronger when we leave this place, and a year hence,
when quite well again, you will beg pardon for the pain
you have given me.”

A faint smile played round the thin lips, and in silence
they proceeded to Mrs. Carlton's.